LOGINPOV: NeomaThey lacked Barzil-plated protection. Adrenaline and cortisol flooded their systems.I walked the line of the Ghost Battalion. Three hundred Nulls stood in the dirt. Most originated from Rax’s refugee camp or the Scavenger Guilds of the Wastes. They were emaciated. Ribs pressed against skin that looked translucent. Rags wrapped in duct tape served as clothing.Muscles in their shoulders spasmed. Their skin turned a sickly grey. The cold air in the shadow of the skyscrapers constricted their lungs, making every breath shallow and jagged.But their eyes remained fixed. Their pupils were dilated. They had spent a lifetime looking at the cracked concrete, but now they looked at the horizon."Move, meat," a rough voice barked.I turned my head. A massive Rogue from the Iron-Jaw clan shoved a teenage Null boy. The Rogue’s face was a map of thick scar tissue. He used his shoulder to strike the boy.The boy stumbled. He hit the ground. His knees scraped against the gravel with a dr
POV: WolfyOne domino fell. The rest followed the weight of power.It was a law of physics. When the Sand-Eater Alpha knelt in the red dust, he didn't just submit; he sent a vibration through the soil. The frequency wasn't radio. It was a physical shifting of status. In the Bone Wastes, this information moved faster than the air.The Void Queen cures the Rot.It started as a trickle. A few stragglers from the Dust-Walker clan, bones snapping and reforming in the early stages of degradation, limped into the perimeter. Then came the Iron-Jaws. They were heavily armed. Their jaws were set. Their muscles were locked with skepticism until Neoma touched their Feral elders.Now, it was a flood.I stood on the roof of the subway station entrance. I looked out over the ruins. The Dead City was no longer empty. It was a crowded cluster of aggressive movement."Logistics," I muttered.I rubbed my temples. A sharp, rhythmic pulsing lived there now—a headache that settled deep in the bone. My jaw
POV: NeomaThe boy was foaming. White, viscous fluid dripped from his jaw, staining the red sand. He threw his weight against the rusted rebar of the cage.The sound was wrong. Wet. Sharp. Like wood breaking underwater. His bones snapped and reformed in a cycle of biological failure. The Feral Rot was boiling his blood. I smelled the scent of cooked meat and copper. He didn't see a healer. His pupils were dilated until the iris vanished. He saw protein."Open it," I commanded.My voice carried a harmonic resonance that vibrated in my own ribcage. My throat felt dry, constricted.The Alpha hesitated. He kept his boot on the latch. "He will tear your throat out, little meat.""If you want him back," I said, "you will open the door."Heat flooded my face. My jaw clenched until my teeth ached. My heart hammered against my ribs—violent, erratic, too fast. Each beat was a fist pounding against bone.The Alpha grunted. He kicked the latch. The metal mechanism gave way with a sharp metallic s
POV: ViggoDiplomacy usually involved talking. I preferred the kind that involved teeth.The transport touched the red soil.Metal ground against metal—a high-pitched, grinding shriek as the engines protested the temperature. The vibration traveled up through the floorboards, into the soles of my boots, and settled in my shins.Heat seared the hull. My throat tightened. The air inside the cabin was dry, tasting of recycled oxygen and hot grease."It smells like a carcass," I grunted.The scent of rotting meat hit my sinus. My stomach twisted. Bile rose in my throat, hot and bitter. The vents of the ship struggled, emitting a low, rhythmic hum that rattled my teeth."It smells like desperation," Neoma corrected.She checked the seals on her mechanic's jumpsuit. Her fingers twitched with a fine tremor. I heard her heart—a rapid, rhythmic thudding. Each beat hit like a fist against her ribs."They scavenge the dead here because nothing grows.""Let me go first," I said.I unbuckled the h
POV: BarzilA table, a map, and five people against an empire.I stood over the tactical table. It was a heavy steel door Viggo had ripped off its hinges. It sat balanced on two oil drums. The metal was cold under my palms. A hand-drawn map of the Dead City was taped to the surface with industrial adhesive.My jaw muscles bunched. My teeth ground together until a sharp, insistent ache settled in my molars. I felt the sweat slide down my neck—cold, slow, and stinging. My fingers twitched against the metal surface. It was an uncontrolled, rhythmic movement. My heart hit my ribs. Pounding. Painful. Each pulse was a physical weight in my chest."The Purge Corps brings heavy armor," I said.My voice was low. It scratched against the silence of the war room. I dragged a piece of chalk across the map.The chalk scraped against the steel door. It was a high-pitched, grinding sound. The vibration traveled from the tip of the chalk, through my fingers, and into my wrist. It made my ears throb w
POV: WolfyPeace lasted exactly twelve hours.It was a statistical anomaly. I had calculated a response time of six hours based on the magnitude of the energy spike and the paranoia rating of Lugal Nergal. We had been gifted double that.I sat in the makeshift comms room. It was a ticket booth at the entrance of the station. Servers were stacked in the corners, humming with a low vibration that traveled through the floor and into my shins. Tangled wires hung from the ceiling.The air tasted of ozone and burnt coffee. It triggered a reflexive constriction in my throat. The electric scent of the Resonance still clung to my skin, making my pores prickle.My muscles locked. Tension settled in the small of my back, a dull ache that radiated down my legs. I felt the physical exhaustion in my joints. The Claiming had been a violent expenditure of energy. But my mind was processing at maximum capacity.A sharp metallic pulse erupted from the console—rhythmic, relentless. The vibration travele
POV: NeomaThe silence after the explosion wasn't empty. It was heavy.It pressed against my eardrums—a physical weight, louder than the blast that had rocked the canyon moments ago. The rebels on the ridge had stopped firing.The jamming signal that had cut Wolfy’s scream short hummed in the air l
POV: BarzilMoney buys keys to any door.In the Citadel, loyalty is a fluctuating currency, but greed is a constant. Even in the heart of the Vanguard Barracks, surrounded by the most dangerous predators in the Lugal’s service, there are gaps. A bribed technician. A blind spot in a sensor grid. A d
POV: NeomaThe inside of a Vanguard transport smelled of stale sweat, gun oil, and violence waiting to happen.It was a claustrophobic steel box. Vibrating so violently with the roar of the engine that my teeth had been aching for the last three hours. A dull throb in my jaw.We were sitting on ben
POV: NeomaThe Dregs didn't look like hell anymore. Through the red tint of the tactical visor, they looked like data.I crouched behind a slab of collapsed concrete. The heavy Barzil-mesh suit adjusted its temperature, fighting the humid, suffocating heat of the Foundry District.My HUD flashed wi







